


When It's Over

by groundyonly



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6528370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundyonly/pseuds/groundyonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning: The piece is a missing scene from Season 3, Episode 1. If you want no hints of any kind of what happens in the new series, don't read this.<br/>Someone on one of the FB pages I moderate said that it seemed funny that d'Artagnan had been blown off his feet (and buried beneath two dead Spaniards) and then was fine in the next frame. Although this is possible, it left me wondering how he might be affected later on.<br/>This is the result of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When It's Over

“I’d give anything to be back in Paris right now.”

D’Artagnan looked out over the battlefield, his eyes seeing the dead and dying, the crows moving in for some scavenged nourishment, the smoke still dissipating from the explosion of the gunpowder, but his brain processing nothing. His ears were still ringing from the screams of men and the singing of swords, the roar of the fireball that knocked them all off their feet—and left two dead men lying on top of him—overpowering in his head. As if in the distance, he saw Athos and Porthos nearby talking about a lone figure down in the ruins, but d’Artagnan couldn’t register the words, or even the object of their discourse.

Then all his senses shut down, and his knees buckled.

“Hey—hey!”

Porthos’s voice penetrated the haze and d’Artagnan felt hands on him, stopping him from hitting the ground face first. 

“I’m all right, I’m all right,” the Gascon said breathlessly, though he couldn’t speak in more than a whisper, and he couldn’t force himself to open his eyes.

“You don’t look it,” came the voice of Athos. “Sit.”

And d’Artagnan found himself sitting on the side of the dirt hill, with a musketeer sitting on either side of him, hands at his back and on his arms to steady him. “I’m all right,” he said again. “I’m just…”

“Exhausted,” Porthos supplied. “We’ve _all_ had it with today.”

“With this week,” d’Artagnan amended automatically, but with no energy behind the banter.

“With this _war.”_

Athos’s words had such a ring of truth to them that no one said anything in response.

“It’s all right; I’m all right now.” D’Artagnan determinedly but reluctantly opened his eyes, but they slammed shut of their own accord almost immediately.

Then d’Artagnan vaguely felt himself being moved into a supine position. Debris dug into his back, but he wasn’t inclined to move. Again, his brother’s voices floated over him. 

“Hit his head?”

“Maybe when he was buried under the Spanish soldiers.” Athos’s breath tickled his ear. “D’Artagnan. D’Artagnan, can you hear me?”

The younger man tried to nod, again failed. “I’m fine, Athos. I’m…”

“Fine. I know.”

The idea that his dear brother and Captain didn’t believe him flashed through d’Artagnan’s mind. But he was sinking into blackness too fast to argue about it. And just when he was about to fade out completely and surrender to oblivion, Porthos’s voice reached him.

“We can’t stay here.”

_Yes, we can._

“You’re right. Come on, d’Artagnan. We’ll get you checked and you can rest back at the camp.”

D’Artagnan wanted to ignore the implied instruction of Athos _(“Get up.”),_ but he knew he could not, and so he prized his eyes open, grimacing at how gritty they suddenly felt, and he tried to struggle into a sitting position. He fleetingly wondered if he had actually been injured, so uncooperative was his body, but other than an all-over ache that had occasionally sharper teeth, and this sudden weakness, all of which could be attributed to the immense physical strain he had put himself under, there was nothing to indicate that, so he dismissed that possibility and accepted with a wan smile the obvious concern and helping hands of Athos and Porthos to get him on his feet.

His knees hadn’t returned to usefulness, it appeared, and, panting from the effort, he found himself leaning heavily on Porthos, whose troubled look at Athos was impossible to miss, even with sore eyes. “I’m fine,” he muttered automatically, feeling like a newborn fawn as he tried to make his feet cooperate with his brain and start moving in the direction of the tents in the distance. When it didn’t work completely, he resigned himself to stumbling along with them, at first trying to hold as much of his own weight as possible, but then surrendering to the support of his friends and letting them take charge. It felt good not to think, for awhile.

By the time they reached the camp, d’Artagnan’s eyes were closed. He couldn’t remember ever being this tired before. Not since the beginning of the war, at least. It was as though when Athos said, “It’s over,” after the battle, all the invisible strings that were holding him up, that were allowing him to keep going even when he was sure he didn’t have a _denier_ of energy left coursing through his veins, were suddenly cut, and he’d folded like a child’s ragdoll, and could not do anything to fight it. 

He felt himself being lowered and then recognized the coolness of the coarse material that was the cot beneath him. For a brief second he protested the removal of Porthos’s arm from around his shoulders. But the objection was just a furrowed brow and a tiny whine, and he quickly welcomed the joy of being horizontal without having been stabbed or shot, and not being in any danger of either happening in the immediate future.

His thoughts drifted again as he moved ever closer to blessed sleep, and though at first all he could see was the pikes and cannons taking aim at him and the men he fought alongside, the images finally dissolved into more pleasant memories—Paris, with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. And Constance, his beloved wife, whom he had not seen since shortly after they wed. All of these images swirled round in his head, lulling him into such a sense of peace that when a voice addressed him from above, he couldn’t tear himself away. He didn’t answer.

But the voice was insistent. “D’Artagnan. Are you hurt?”

The Gascon was sure he was still dreaming when he answered airily, “Aramis?”

Then the gruff voice of Porthos accompanied a prod to the shoulder. “No, it’s us. And the medic. Come on, open your eyes.”

Fuzzy with exhaustion, d’Artagnan obeyed, and though he could only open them to tiny slits, it seemed to satisfy the big musketeer, who grunted approval. “Let the medic look at you.”

“’m fine,” d’Artagnan sighed.

But the medic moved in, asked a few questions that d’Artagnan could only answer in single syllables, and even then Porthos had to keep jostling him to keep him awake enough to answer. In the end, the medic reported, “There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with him. Could have hit his head when he got thrown from the blast, but he’s gone for days with only a few hours’ rest, so I’d say he’s just exhausted. Let him sleep and he should be fine.”

“Thank you,” said Athos. Then d’Artagnan saw his mentor appear beside him, crouching near the cot at his head. “It appears you just need to rest,” he said. D’Artagnan tried to answer, but instead just closed his eyes. “You might not be so tired if you hadn’t come running when my horse went out from under me today.”

D’Artagnan had forgotten about that. In the heat of battle, so much was done by instinct that one didn’t even stop to think about it—before, during, and sometimes even after. Seeing Athos’s horse lose its footing and dump its rider on the ground, seeing the charge of the Spanish that was going to mean certain death for his friend, d’Artagnan had simply turned away from his foe and charged forward, fighting right over the top of Athos on the ground at his feet, giving the older man a chance to regain his equilibrium and avoid becoming another casualty of a battle that was already going badly. And then he did what he had done every day for the past four years: he put the incident out of his mind, so it didn’t overwhelm him, and so he could concentrate on staying alive.

He took so long to answer, he supposed Athos would have thought him asleep, but eventually he forced his eyes open, and with the best pre-war cheek in his voice he could muster, he joked, “If you’d learned to ride like a Gascon, you wouldn’t have fallen off your horse in the first place.”

His reward was a rare but genuine smile and two raised eyebrows from his friend. D’Artagnan smiled drowsily back, then let his eyes slide shut for a final time, unable to keep them open any more. He felt Athos’s hand clamp his arm, and there was an intensity in his voice that even in his semi-conscious state, d’Artagnan could not help but notice.

“I am certain you saved my life. Thank you.”

But d’Artagnan could manage no more than a whispered breath now. “You have done the same for me. And I could not live without you,” he replied. There was more he wanted to say, he was sure there was more, but his complete exhaustion could be denied no longer. The war would no doubt come back later. But for now, he knew he and his friends were safe, and he faded into peaceful sleep.


End file.
